


Onward Toward Epiphany I OR New Year's Is Upon Us

by Tammany



Series: Assorted Advent Stories, Christmas 2014, All-sorts, some connected. [34]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Bittersweet, Complicated Relationships, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly, Sherlock. Friendship. Sherlock with all the warts on, unfortunately. But also with quite a few of his more admirable bits showing. </p><p>This is not love/romance. And, yet--it's sweet, tender, and doesn't deny elements of both.</p><p>This is part of the Advent series--but it really had to be renamed. St. Stephen's Day is definitely no longer Advent.</p><p>There will still be carols, but in the modern world the "Twelve Days of Christmas" leading up to Epiphany are experienced as a return to the secular world, so expect a balance that leans a bit more heavily into secular music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

‘Twas the day after Christmas, and all through the house, the family was stirring, including the “mouse.”

Molly Hooper danced through the family sitting room, hips swinging, her plaid knit pullover PJ bottoms swaying back and forth as she belted out a swing-era riff on the “Twelve Days of Christmas.”

_Nine lords a-leapin’_

_Eight maids a milkin’_

_Seven swans swimmin’_

_Six geese layin’_

_Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiive—_

_Fiiiiiiiiiiiive—_

_Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive—_

_Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive—_

_Five-golden-r_ _ings…._

_Callin’ birds, Cacklin’ hens, turtledoves aaaaaaand_

_A parrrrrrtridge—_

_A parrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtridge—_

_A partridge_

_In a_

_Pe-e-ee-ear…_

_Tree._

She finished with a wild, ebullient passage of scat singing, mixing in trees and birds and rings with the percussive sounds of improvised be-bop. She spun happily under the mistletoe hung from the top of the door frame.

Her mum looked at her and shook her head, brows rising.

“Eh, Mol’, you’re a card, you are. That’s not how it goes, love.”

“Could go,” Molly said, and dimpled. She snatched a candy cane out of her bowl of stocking goodies, and peeled away the wrapper, nibbling on the end. “Come on, admit it, Mum—it’s a nice change from four days of doing it the ordinary way.”

Her mum shook her head. “You. You always did have a taste for the weird,” she said—not so much critical as amused and fond and familiar. “My little mouse-lette, always just a bit queer around the edges. But—“ She looked at her daughter, sternly. “All that time alone in that morgue is making you a bit peculiar, girl. Not to mention putting up with that ‘Hat Man’ fellow and his lot. That’s for toffs, love—the idle rich playing at being coppers. Leave it to the posh set. You sort yourself out, and look to something solid, yeah?”

Molly sighed. Mum was sensible, practical, low-brow and proud of it. She was the sort who, if she spotted a bit of whimsy running around in a corner of her life, would scurry to the cleaning cupboard and find the bug-spray so she could spray it out of existence. Then she’d scrape it up with the broom and dust pan and trot it out to the bins, lest any nasty whimsical fleas crept off it as its sad little body cooled. She would never understand the romantic and frivolous side of Molly, or her love of the ever-so-slightly   _“counter, original, spare, and strange.”_

To Mum the Holmes men, and even John and Lestrade, and all the strangeness that tumbled in their wake, would always look foreign—and not in a good way. But, then, Mum thought Monty Python was tasteless and rude, and Doctor Who was “That weird kiddy show they keep bringing back for some reason.” Mum liked a good laugh as much as the next person, but her laughter was earthy, grounded, and so non-whimsical it could have been distilled and bottled and distributed as a twee deterrent. Or, as Mum often said looking over Molly’s shoulder at the laptop, “Na, I dunno, Mol’—gimme a good cat over a kitten any day, especially a kitten as gormless as that one.”

Da had been the quirky one, Molly thought.

She sighed, helped Mum clean up the littered, cozy sitting room, then set up her laptop.

A sudden alert sounded, and an IM bloomed in the corner of her screen. She recognized Sherlock’s screen ID.

She sighed as her pulse picked up just a notch. All these years, all the growing understanding that no matter how she loved the strange, the strange did not necessarily love her—and she still felt that little flutter of excitement to see his ID on the screen, or his email addy in her in-box. She clicked to open the IM.

_SH: Happy Boxing Day, Molly._

_MH: Happy Boxing Day, Sherlock. Did you have a good Christmas?_

_SH: Within certain rather tight definitions of the term “good,” then, yes. I suppose I did._

_MH: Good. I’m glad. Did you find the stocking present I had John put in your stocking?_

_SH: Yes. Did you crochet it yourself?_

_MH: Yes. I thought it might amuse you._

_SH: A hand-crocheted Jayne hat? Of course it amused me. I intend to bewilder Mycroft with it the next time he comes to Baker Street. He will never deduce it…unless Lestrade manages to seduce him into the ways of_ Firefly _, as he has into the occult brotherhood of_ Doctor Who _fans._

Molly sighed. That wasn’t quite how she’d hoped he’d be amused. She’d hoped he might come down to the morgue someday wearing it, and laughing. But—in all honesty, she should have known better, she thought. Sherlock did not take his appearance half so lightly as he’d like to admit, except when playing a role for a case. Even then he tended to be rather serious even about his silliness.

_MH: Good. I’m glad you liked it. The box of surgical spreaders was very thoughtful. I was running a bit short at work._

_SH: Yes. I noticed the last time you let me go rummaging around. I had to use your biros to prop the incision far enough open. I’m glad this will remedy the problem._

_MH: Good thinking._

_SH: Well… yes. Of course._

_MH: So. That’s Christmas done with. What are you doing New Year’s Eve?_

_SH: That’s why I IMed you. John said I shouldn’t—he says it’s a bit not-good. But I’m thinking of taking Janine out on New Years, and thought we might all make a party of it. Do you have any good ideas where we could all go?_

_MH: Janine?_

_SH: You know. Mary’s Maid of Honour? The girl I was seeing back when I got shot?_

_MH: Oh. That Janine. I thought you split up and she moved down to Sussex. And that she hated you and was, well—not nice about you in the tabloids._

_SH: Yes, well. It seems we’re back on. So—any ideas? She’s not a very good dancer, but she’s learning. Where should I take a girl dancing._

Molly sighed.

_MH: I don’t know, Sherlock. Men don’t ask me out dancing all that often. Apparently I’m not the sort who brings that out in a man._

_SH: Oh, right. Sorry. Obvious. I should have thought of it. Where would you want them to take you if they did ask you out?_

There was a long pause, while Molly stared at the screen blankly. Then the IM woke again.

_SH: Sorry, Molly, this isn’t Sherlock, it’s John. I’ll have a word with him. So sorry. You know him, but—so sorry…_

She gathered herself.

_MH: No. I mean, thank you, John, but—tell Sherlock he should take her to the Paramount. It costs more than I even want to think about, but it’s upmarket and shiny. Tell him I hope they have a lovely time._

_SH: Molly—me again. I told John you wouldn’t mind. So. Are you coming?_

_MH: What?_

_SH: Are you coming? I’m asking John and Mary and I’m hoping at least Lestrade will come. We’ll see who he can convince to come along with him._

_MH: Sherlock, I said—it’s out of my price bracket._

_SH: I’m throwing a party and you won’t come?_

_MH: What part of “Can’t afford it” don’t you understand?_

_SH: What part of “Throwing a party” don’t you understand? My shilling, not yours._

She blinked, and considered the complicated feelings shivering and twisting inside.

He had a girlfriend. He was taking her dancing on New Year’s. But he was having a party, and bringing his friends along. She might not be his girlfriend—but she could wear a pretty dress, and a ribbon in her hair, and…

_MH: Are you covering food and drinks, too? Or should I budget for them?_

_SH: I hadn’t thought. But—bring cab money, and don’t worry about that. But can you help me decide which suit to wear?_

_MH: Why not ask Janine?_

_SH: Because I want to surprise her._

_MH: You do know you’re horrible?_

_SH: Because I want to impress her? I know. I am disgusted with myself. I feel like I’ve turned into you._

_MH: Maybe I won’t come. Or maybe I’ll bring my own boyfriend._

_SH: You have a new one?_

No. She didn’t. But she suddenly didn’t know why. Even a marginal boyfriend would be better than waiting for Sherlock to stop being clueless.

_MH: No. Maybe I’ll find one at the party._

_SH: I’ll help you look. That’s how I got to know Janine._

_MH: I remember. Will you help me pick something to wear to impress men?_

She felt assertive and faintly vengeful—until he continued being Sherlock.

_SH: A challenge. I don’t think you’d still fit that red thing you wore four Christmases back—you’ve put on a stone since then. And the color was never good. You shouldn’t coordinate your clothing with your makeup and gift wrap, but do it the other way around. The bow was silly._

_MH: Sometimes I hate you, Sherlock._

_SH: I know. It’s like John’s friends. They all hate him, too. Apparently that’s quite normal…and it explains why you gave me a hand crocheted Jayne hat for Christmas. So—are you coming?_

_MH: Yeah. I’m coming. And I’m wearing the red dress, so there._

_SH: Maybe I should ask Mary to help me pick my suit._

_MH: Maybe you should. But you owe me a dance and a kiss under the mistletoe, no matter what. And you’re still paying._

_SH: Of course. I’ll email you the details later. I’m glad you’re coming._

_MH: Me, too. Bye, Sherlock._

_SH: Laters._

She shook her head. Sherlock—why did it have to be Sherlock? She smiled, ruefully.

He’d drive her crazy. He’d hurt her over and over again… But—she was glad he’d asked her.

She paused over the keyboard, then typed again.

_MH: Sherlock? I’d be glad for some help finding a good date. And if one of the suits is the blue one you wore to the last court case—pick that one. It makes you look all kinds of sexy._

_SH: Ah. Hadn’t thought of that one. Now I have to decide between three—but it’s a good notion. Thank you. What do you want in a boyfriend?_

_MH: Someone as bright as you and as pretty as you and as interesting as you—who won’t hurt me, Sherlock._

_SH: That may take some work._

_MH: Tell me about it._

_SH: I’m sorry I hurt you._

_MH: I know you are._

_SH: You matter, Molly Hooper. You always have, and you always will._

_MH: Thank you. I love you, too, Sherlock._

_SH: Good. You did understand. Merry Christmas, Molly._

_MH: Merry Christmas, Sherlock._

She sighed, and smiled, and pulled up a recording of “What Are You Doing, New Year’s Eve?” and sang along at the top of her lungs, turning and turning under the mistletoe as her mum shook her head and muttered about madness on the Hooper side of the family.

Molly knew what she was doing New Year’s Eve—going out dancing with her best friend and his sweetie. And that was good enough.

**Nota Bene:**

[The Twelve Days of Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Fe11OlMiz8): Because we moderns have an attenuated Christmas celebration, with an informal Advent run-up that’s closer in spirit to the old-style post-Christmas “Twelve Days of Christmas” season terminating in Epiphany, we sometimes forget that many of the songs and carols were presumed to be appropriate throughout that little ecclesiastical season. I chose to let Molly still be singing carols—and I chose to have Molly, who loves Glee and whom I want to let be a good singer, belt it out and play with it.  I don’t know anyone who sings it “her” way, so I just linked to the a cappella group, “Straight No Chaser” playing with it in a very different set of ways. It should be easy to find “ordinary” renditions, but I wanted to put in something in the same spirit of gleeful play that I imagine Molly indulging in.

[What Are You Doing, New Year’s Eve?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0YOaRFQAFY): This is a classic version—again, Molly’s wailin’.


	2. To Everyone Following--a Day or So Hiatus....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, but I don't see any way I'm posting today, even though I've got an installment partly done.
> 
> Today was an emotionally busy day. Not bad at all--just--yeah. Got some news. Good news--but the kind that makes you spend the day rearranging the furniture of your brain, capische? And tomorrow is likely to be more rearrangement plus a mess of practical things that did not get done today because of the shuffle.
> 
> Again-it's not bad. It's quite good. Just discombobulating.

Soon, chickies. Not now, but soon.


End file.
